


Kaeru ~Minus Zero~

by chaineddove



Series: Zero Series [2]
Category: Loveless
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-09
Updated: 2006-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just, they were here so long that he got used to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaeru ~Minus Zero~

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Volume 6 of the manga, which should really be known as "Soubi's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." This fic requires a very rudimentary knowledge of Japanese - the verb "kaeru", to return, is generally used within the context of returning home, specifically.

He knows instinctively that they are gone before he calls out to them, before he turns on the light. He knows before he finds the sheet of paper with two quickly scrawled characters, just one word to tell him they have gone. _Kaeru._ Going back. Returning home.

He’s smiling, he thinks. He doesn’t know why he should smile, but it’s better than any alternative he can think of. There’s only messy handwriting left behind, and a long green hair on the pillow, and the smell of bubble bath from the bathroom—they’ve forgotten to drain the bathtub again. It’s as if they’re out for a stroll, about to come in giggling and muddy and demanding to be fed, like the stray kittens he first brought home. But the note—just one word, a short word letting him know very clearly: _We’re not coming back here anymore. Here is not a place to “come back” to. There is another home waiting for our return._

He sits down on the bed and he lights a cigarette and he doesn’t really feel anything. It’s not like he expected them to stay with him forever. He didn’t really want them in the first place, and no one stays forever, anyway. Everyone wants to return home eventually, and this isn’t a home; not his, or theirs or anyone else’s. They’re all passing through.

The night is very dark outside the windows. He’s tired. He walks into the kitchen without turning on the lights, looking for a drink, maybe. He squints into the refrigerator. There isn’t any beer left; they must have taken the last of it. The floor and the counters are sparkling clean, though. He’s pleased. He spent months trying to housebreak them, and they finally learned to clean up without his prompting. He wants to laugh at himself; he sounds like a parent who’s been raising a couple of problem children.

They weren’t really children, but there was a childlike freedom in them, somehow. He doesn’t really understand it, but that was the strange sort of feeling he always got; he thinks, wherever they are, those two belong only to themselves. They are Fighter and Sacrifice, they are like him, but they are not. They exist in a world entirely of their own creation, bright with spilled beer and bath bubbles and video games and bandages and mischief and carefree laughter. But they fit into his world too, and they gave him something to do, and that wasn’t so bad, even if they had tried to kill him at the start. In the end, he still had them cleaning his kitchen.

They should have thanked him at least, for that. They’re moderately civilized these days. Nagisa might not recognize them.

He leaves the kitchen, goes back to the bed, lies down and stares at the ceiling through a haze of cigarette smoke. It would be nice, he thinks, to have someone to argue with right now, just for form. Just for a little bit of distraction. Just for a few minutes of time away from his thoughts. No more than that, really; it isn’t as though he misses them. He knew they would leave one day. Everyone leaves. It’s just, they were here so long that he got used to them. Feed a stray long enough…

He thinks idly: if you subtract zero, you’re left with exactly what you had at the onset. If he’s feeling this way now, it’s not because they’re gone.

His cigarette has burned away. He gets up again, goes and drains the bathtub, mops up the water on the floor. He throws away the hair lying on his pillow. He almost throws away the note, then tucks it into his pocket instead. And that’s it, looking around the room, there is no sign of them left. It’s almost as though they were never here.

He knows this feeling. It’s a little like despair, maybe, or emptiness. Everyone seems to find it so easy to walk away from him. He’s no good at stopping them. He’s no good at making them want to stop themselves. He’s no good at making them want to stay.

He doesn’t like these sorts of thoughts, these sorts of feelings. They make him wish someone would just hurt him, so he could think about that instead of thinking about everything else. He picks up his keys after a moment and heads out the door. He needs to paint, probably; it’s a good way to clear his mind of everything. It’s easier to express himself in color sometimes: angry red slashes across the canvas, sorrowful blue, hints of fragile, exhausted gray. Flowers with delicate stems, butterflies with broken wings, threads of light, shreds of darkness, balance. Tranquility.

It’s too much for one night—Seimei, Nisei, Ritsuka, Hitomi-sensei, Zero. He’ll put them all on canvas and he’ll be better. There’s too much in his head, and he just needs to get it out. If he walks to the university, it will be late enough to be early by the time he gets there. He’ll find an open door. He’ll find a blank canvas. He’ll find paints and brushes, and he’ll sit down and get this out of his system. The windows are dark and quiet as he locks the door. He starts walking.


End file.
